


"Hurts."

by PetrichorPerfume



Series: Yes [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Burns, Dehydration, Horror, Lucifer's Cage, Multi, Starvation, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2105139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrichorPerfume/pseuds/PetrichorPerfume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs to be held more than anything else, but Gabriel and Lucifer have abandoned him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Hurts."

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Melting flesh, burnt skin, horror.

“Hurts,” Sam whimpers.

 

Everything hurts, from his skin down to his bones, from every molecule of his body to ever fiber of his soul.

 

There isn’t enough air here, this far away from Lucifer and Gabriel, and his throat is ash-dust dry because he hasn’t had anything to drink in least five years. There isn’t any food, either, but the thing that Sam loves about starvation is that it stops hurting in mere months. He’d stupidly managed to land in a desert-hot spot in the Cage instead of the usual North-Pole-frigid places the angels usually tossed him into when they were done with him. At first, he’d melted and little bits of flesh had dripped from his legs and his arms and into his eyes, but then he’d dried out and gotten desiccated and ever since then he’s been charring. _At least the cold makes you sleepy,_ he thinks. _The heat... The heat won’t let you rest, not for one second._

 

But that’s not what hurts. Sam hasn’t been touched in decades, and it _hurts._ He needs to be touched more than he needs anything else in the universe, needs someone to come hold him and kiss his hair and tell him he’s a good boy and cuddle him until it stops hurting so badly. He _needs_ it, but Gabriel and Lucifer remain far-off points of light in the distance. They don’t care how badly he needs them; they don’t come when he begs them; they don’t answer the continuous stream of prayers he sends to anyone who will listen.

 

Slowly, because it _hurts,_ slowly, because his skin cracks with every tiny motion, slowly, because he knows it’ll kill him if he goes any faster, he wraps his arms around himself and sobs because it’s not enough.

 

It’ll never be enough. 


End file.
